I come bringing fiction!
So, I have a piece of original fiction that I hope some of you will read. It's in the dreaded (or adored) second-person and I hope you like it!
Title: Still, Life Continues
Author: Me!
Rating: PG-13? I have no idea.
Warnings: mental illness and possibly dependent behavior.
Summary: "On a good day, your hair looks alive and defiant, with your eyes mischievous. On a bad day, your hair looks fake and your eyes dull."
You're small, only 5'5" and just over one hundred and ten pounds. You have short, floppy hair that you tend to dye a fiery red or burgundy depending on your mood. You wear more make-up than people expect and probably realize. I've caught you on more than one occasion touching up make-up that no one has even noticed you wearing (and I like to think of myself as observant). Your clothing runs the gamut of extremely butch, with suspenders and ties, to exquisitely femme, all lace and glitter and stiletto heels. Sometimes, just to confuse people, you mix it up, wearing suspenders with a flirty, flouncy skirt and your army boots, face streaked with your defiance of social rules. You're instantly recognizable, even through the smoke and flashing lights and crowded bodies of a club. Everyone flocks around you, people of all genders and walks of life; on a good day, anyways.
As gorgeous as you are all dressed up and scandalous, you're wearing my favorite incarnation of yourself right now. Just a black tank top stretched over golden skin and white sweatpants slung low on your hips, low enough to scandalize your mother. Although the eyeliner, smudged from sleep, and the tousled hair would probably horrify her more. She was always too conservative for you and doesn't understand that some things are worth smearing your make-up.
I'm lucky you're up this early, awake enough to simultaneously help and distract with your swollen, smeared mouth, laughing up at me as if you've never seen anyone or anything more entertaining. Today's one of your good days. You're actually awake and alive this morning.
Some days, some days are hard. You get up when I do, but go back to bed almost immediately. You are almost late to your job, careless with any part of your life. Your hair should look alive and defiant, and your eyes mischievous, but they only look fake and dull.
On a good day, you'll take an apple with you on the way to work. Eating it on the subway will draw everyone's eye as your white teeth crunch and sink into its cool pink flesh. On a bad day, you forget to eat and people stare for a different reason, wondering why this loser has such weird hair.
On a good day at your restaurant, you'll get higher tips than everyone else and quite a few phone numbers. I'm glad you just laugh over them with me when we get home and tumble onto the worn out couch to talk and laugh with the take-out flavor of the day. None of these admirers would appreciate you in all your faceted glory, they only see you as that good looking server with the cool hair, all your piercings removed, tattoos covered up; any risk or danger nonexistent. I tell you these people are looking for someone who is just this side of normal and you deserve someone who doesn't expect you to be anyone, just accepts any fragment of yourself you're willing and able to give, and on a good day, you believe me.
On a bad day, your tips are just as lifeless as the rest of you appears to be, only a few taking pity on you to give more than five percent. You're too soft-spoken for people to really be attracted, but you still get some phone numbers. You don't care on a bad day, but these numbers and the people behind them interest and repulse me at the same time when you tell me of them later. Do they pity you? Are they that desperate for a date? Or do they see someone worth caring for beneath the pain and struggling? I am less outspoken about these people than I am on your good days, but it doesn't matter because you don't really believe me about your worth as a person on bad days.
On a good day, the end of your night happens long after I've given up and gone to bed, since I have work in the morning and you take only afternoon and evening shifts. You go out dancing, as if you're celebrating being able to live life on this good day, and come back stumbling and wasted but happy past three in the morning. On a good day, you wear even more make-up than usual and it's usually mussed beyond all recognition when you come into the bathroom to take it off, as if you've been partying so hard that an integral part of yourself has been changed. On a good day, you mostly remember to take off your make-up before tumbling into bed. Some days you're too tired or too plastered and I wake to both our pillowcases covered in glitter and eyeliner and you curled up in ball in the middle of the bed with no pillow at all, the make-up bothering you even in your sleep.
On a bad day, you're asleep almost before your return to our apartment, the only thing keeping you in a pretense of normality your discomfort on the subway. You're particularly fragile at this time of day and sometimes need me to reassure you when you get home that I really do care about you and I don't just take pity on you when I live with you. On a bad day, you're so insecure that the wrong look from a customer can have you curled up in the bathroom, waiting for me to get home to be almost successful in convincing you that it's worth being yourself for the good days, instead of just hiding the real you from everyone's eyes and judgment. On a bad day, you don't remember that you're wearing make-up and smear it all over your face, sometimes even while still at work. On a bad day, you start in the middle of the bed with a pillow and pull me down around you to protect you from the rest of the world as soon as I return home and arrive at the bed in search of you.
Some days are so bad all you can do is stay curled up in bed all day, just waiting out the monsters that whisper that you aren't worth it.
No one knows why good days are good and bad days are bad, but they are. Sometimes the goods or the bads are days long, sometimes nearly a week, but the other extreme eventually returns. We just hope that the good will soon outnumber the bad. That's all we can really do, hope.
Feedback would be awesome, even though I know I'm horribly behind commenting on fic I read. (Sorry about the smidgen of angst!)
Title: Still, Life Continues
Author: Me!
Rating: PG-13? I have no idea.
Warnings: mental illness and possibly dependent behavior.
Summary: "On a good day, your hair looks alive and defiant, with your eyes mischievous. On a bad day, your hair looks fake and your eyes dull."
You're small, only 5'5" and just over one hundred and ten pounds. You have short, floppy hair that you tend to dye a fiery red or burgundy depending on your mood. You wear more make-up than people expect and probably realize. I've caught you on more than one occasion touching up make-up that no one has even noticed you wearing (and I like to think of myself as observant). Your clothing runs the gamut of extremely butch, with suspenders and ties, to exquisitely femme, all lace and glitter and stiletto heels. Sometimes, just to confuse people, you mix it up, wearing suspenders with a flirty, flouncy skirt and your army boots, face streaked with your defiance of social rules. You're instantly recognizable, even through the smoke and flashing lights and crowded bodies of a club. Everyone flocks around you, people of all genders and walks of life; on a good day, anyways.
As gorgeous as you are all dressed up and scandalous, you're wearing my favorite incarnation of yourself right now. Just a black tank top stretched over golden skin and white sweatpants slung low on your hips, low enough to scandalize your mother. Although the eyeliner, smudged from sleep, and the tousled hair would probably horrify her more. She was always too conservative for you and doesn't understand that some things are worth smearing your make-up.
I'm lucky you're up this early, awake enough to simultaneously help and distract with your swollen, smeared mouth, laughing up at me as if you've never seen anyone or anything more entertaining. Today's one of your good days. You're actually awake and alive this morning.
Some days, some days are hard. You get up when I do, but go back to bed almost immediately. You are almost late to your job, careless with any part of your life. Your hair should look alive and defiant, and your eyes mischievous, but they only look fake and dull.
On a good day, you'll take an apple with you on the way to work. Eating it on the subway will draw everyone's eye as your white teeth crunch and sink into its cool pink flesh. On a bad day, you forget to eat and people stare for a different reason, wondering why this loser has such weird hair.
On a good day at your restaurant, you'll get higher tips than everyone else and quite a few phone numbers. I'm glad you just laugh over them with me when we get home and tumble onto the worn out couch to talk and laugh with the take-out flavor of the day. None of these admirers would appreciate you in all your faceted glory, they only see you as that good looking server with the cool hair, all your piercings removed, tattoos covered up; any risk or danger nonexistent. I tell you these people are looking for someone who is just this side of normal and you deserve someone who doesn't expect you to be anyone, just accepts any fragment of yourself you're willing and able to give, and on a good day, you believe me.
On a bad day, your tips are just as lifeless as the rest of you appears to be, only a few taking pity on you to give more than five percent. You're too soft-spoken for people to really be attracted, but you still get some phone numbers. You don't care on a bad day, but these numbers and the people behind them interest and repulse me at the same time when you tell me of them later. Do they pity you? Are they that desperate for a date? Or do they see someone worth caring for beneath the pain and struggling? I am less outspoken about these people than I am on your good days, but it doesn't matter because you don't really believe me about your worth as a person on bad days.
On a good day, the end of your night happens long after I've given up and gone to bed, since I have work in the morning and you take only afternoon and evening shifts. You go out dancing, as if you're celebrating being able to live life on this good day, and come back stumbling and wasted but happy past three in the morning. On a good day, you wear even more make-up than usual and it's usually mussed beyond all recognition when you come into the bathroom to take it off, as if you've been partying so hard that an integral part of yourself has been changed. On a good day, you mostly remember to take off your make-up before tumbling into bed. Some days you're too tired or too plastered and I wake to both our pillowcases covered in glitter and eyeliner and you curled up in ball in the middle of the bed with no pillow at all, the make-up bothering you even in your sleep.
On a bad day, you're asleep almost before your return to our apartment, the only thing keeping you in a pretense of normality your discomfort on the subway. You're particularly fragile at this time of day and sometimes need me to reassure you when you get home that I really do care about you and I don't just take pity on you when I live with you. On a bad day, you're so insecure that the wrong look from a customer can have you curled up in the bathroom, waiting for me to get home to be almost successful in convincing you that it's worth being yourself for the good days, instead of just hiding the real you from everyone's eyes and judgment. On a bad day, you don't remember that you're wearing make-up and smear it all over your face, sometimes even while still at work. On a bad day, you start in the middle of the bed with a pillow and pull me down around you to protect you from the rest of the world as soon as I return home and arrive at the bed in search of you.
Some days are so bad all you can do is stay curled up in bed all day, just waiting out the monsters that whisper that you aren't worth it.
No one knows why good days are good and bad days are bad, but they are. Sometimes the goods or the bads are days long, sometimes nearly a week, but the other extreme eventually returns. We just hope that the good will soon outnumber the bad. That's all we can really do, hope.
Feedback would be awesome, even though I know I'm horribly behind commenting on fic I read. (Sorry about the smidgen of angst!)